


Trade

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Pegging, Prostitution, Referenced Unresolved Draco/Harry, Vaginal Fingering, non explicit Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: Pansy is a business woman, first and foremost, but she can’t deny how much she enjoys it whenhevisits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://hp-unfaithful.livejournal.com/90908.html?thread=270108#t270108) asking for _Call Girl Pansy. Valentine's is her busiest time of the year_ , at [hp_unfaithful](http://hp-unfaithful.livejournal.com/90908.html?thread=270108#t270108)'s Valentine's Day Comment Fest (currently running!).
> 
> Much less angst-ridden than the tags might imply -- this was, all in all, far too much fun to write.

.*.

Valentine's is her busiest night of the year.

She’s booked for months in advance, her clients vying to spend the night with her instead of in their offices, or with their wives pretending the spark there can still be ignited. Who can blame them, really, for preferring to spend the night with their faces buried between her thighs, rather than in the sand when it comes to their miserable lives? Pansy doesn't blame them, that's for sure. 

After all, they’re paying for her chic apartment, her daughter’s education, and Pansy has never been one to look down on being popular. 

Her skin is warm and soft from the shower as she stands naked over the bureau in her office and glances down at the charmed parchment to see who will be visiting tonight. The usual suspects, she notes dryly. The banker from London. The softly-spoken Ministry secretary. Her eyes narrow when she sees the third name on the list. 

_Oh, hello darling._

Running one neatly clipped, chartreuse-coloured fingernail across it, she smirks. Of course he’d ask to see her tonight. She tilts her head, walking over to the wardrobe. Her feet leave soft indents in the plush carpet, and she runs her tongue over her teeth before she waves her hand and clears the list for the evening ― all but one name. 

Valentine’s day is her busiest night, yes, but tonight she’s only taking one client

.*.

Pansy’s been doing this for years.

At first, some of the girls tried to tell her how to run her show, when she first started selling what was hers and enjoying the profits. 

“Don’t dress too tarty, honey, but make sure you let them see a peek of what’s on offer.”

“Red lipstick suits you, but a lot of guys think it makes a girl look cheap. Try for something demure. Trust me, the wealthier clients _love_ that shit.”

“Whatever you do, don’t be too clever. They don't like it when you’re funnier than them.”

“Some of the clients might like to vent afterwards, pillow talk and all. Mostly they just want you to sit pretty and listen.”

Their advice was well-intentioned, of course, but so was Pansy’s smile when she told them where they could shove it. She was well aware that nothing scared a man more than an intelligent woman with a pussy they couldn’t say no too, but she was more than aware that that wasn’t the kind of man she wanted to cater to. She was going to be selective. She was going to choose who she took to bed with her, not the other way around. 

That wasn’t to say she didn’t like the other women at the exclusive Maison she worked from. Quite the opposite; some of them were closer and dearer to her than her own family. Sally was the sweetest thing pansy had ever met, and Miriam taught Pansy how to make a man weep for joy with only the right pair of heels. And Eleanor ― well that was the closest Pansy had ever come to being in love, the way she felt for Eleanor and the way her tangled curls felt under Pansy’s hands, the way her thighs trembled and her back arched when she came. Pansy suspected that was the closest she could get to falling in love. She was more than okay with that. 

It hadn’t taken her long to rise to the top of the pecking order, to the discrete applause and kohl-lined winks of her fellow call-girls. And now, she could pick and choose as she pleased.

.*.

She’ll never admit it, but her favourite nights are the ones that he visits.

It’s always later in the evening, always her last client for the day. Trust him to still retain that flare for the dramatic, even after, what is it, ten years? It doesn’t feel that long. 

He always arrives after work. His robes are rumpled, the red of the Auror garb clashing with the gold fringing on that horrid cloak. Pansy can’t abide those uniforms, but she can certainly stomach the men underneath them when they visit her. She knows some of the other girls won’t take Auror clients, too worried about the strong arm of the law coming down on them, or the strong arms of the men themselves, taking more than the girls are willing to offer; it’s a more than common hazard of the trade, the way some of the male clients can behave. But Pansy suspects that’s more to do with being female then being a whore, per se. She feels as safe with her clients as she’s ever felt with most of the other men in her life, and far more so than the ones in masks her parents used to entertain. 

She knows he has a wife still. He never takes his ring off. Pansy is glad of that, at least. She would never show it ― she’s far too classy for that ― but she has nothing but contempt for those men who shuck their rings and hide them away before they visit her. Do they think she can’t see the pale skin, showing where the band should be? Is she supposed to be impressed by this act of hiding that they’re doing something behind the back of someone who is dear to them, in name at least, if nothing else? No, it reeks of cowardice to her. Own your infidelity, she always thinks, own and wear it in here with me. We’ve no lies between us, under these sheets and the heavy perfume of sex. 

She’s glad that he gets it, even gladder when she feels the cold stripe of that gold band as he grips her waist, kisses down her chest and pulls her nipple between his lips. 

She wouldn't know what to make of it if Saint Potter was both a cheat _and_ a coward. 

Pansy tries not to have favourites among her clients. It’s deeply unprofessional to mix business with pleasure, but Pansy could never lie and say she doesn't enjoy the nights spent with him. He fucks like she always imagined he would, when she like the rest of the girls in the Slytherin dorms speculated about it. He’s fitter than she had expected, and when she runs her fingers through the dark hair on his chest, sees the flecks of grey amongst them and feels his thighs against hers as he pushes inside her ― well, she can’t lie and say she doesn't enjoy it. 

She’s pragmatic at heart, a business woman through and through, and although she’s never been accused of being fond or sentimental in her life, she allows herself this one little pleasure; she always gives him the entire night. The entire night with Potter braced above her, sweat glistening on his skin as she rakes her nails down his back, his knees skidding on the sheets as he fucks her until dawn. 

What must his wife be thinking. 

She’d been tempted to turn him away at first, to refuse his money, even throw it back in his face. Merlin, but that would have been satisfying, and after all, she’d be more than entitled to it. There was never any love lost between them at Hogwarts. But Pansy had a reputation to maintain, and tantrums in her parlour were not part of that carefully cultivated persona that had men dropping galleons at her feet hoping she would sweep them off theirs for the evening. 

It was Valentine’s day, of all days, the first time he came to her. There he was, saviour of the wizarding world, his jaw set and his glasses wiped clean as he sat on her expensive chaise lounge and regarded her, his face stern but colour high on his cheeks. The clock on Pansy’s wall ticked gently as neither of them spoke. There wasn’t much to say; they both knew what Harry was here for. Now Pansy just needed to give an answer. 

The thing was, Pansy’s services were difficult to come by. One needed to look for her, and look hard ― _Potter_ must have looked for her, sought her out specifically ― and that kind of flattery would always sweeten Pansy, send a flutter down her middle. It was that very flutter, the tingle between her legs and the moisture she felt there as she tensed her thighs, curled her toes in her stiletto heels, that made her inclined to consider him. 

It had taken her two days to let him know she would take him on. It took him less than fifteen minutes to reply and request to schedule a time. 

_Flattery, Potter_. Pansy rolled the burgundy matte lipgloss over her lips, smacked them gently. _It will get you everywhere, darling_.

.*.

Sometimes she sees it written on his face as plain as the scars on the back of his hand, but she can never quite put her finger on what it is. Something is eating at him, something more than she usually sees on her clients’ faces. It doesn’t look like guilt, but it might be. It doesn’t feel like guilt when he arrives in her rooms on Valentine’s day, on time as always, his hands warm around her waist and even warmer when she pins them to the bed.

She wants to ask him, then, why he comes here. She’s dying to ask what he’s leaving at home. What is it there, in his peripheral vision, that he doesn’t want to look at? 

But she’s never asked and she never will. The answers would only shatter the fragile truce they’ve built between them, the one they make in these baby blue sheets which he fists so well as she rolls her hips and rides him until he can’t remember his own name, let alone hers. 

Some things are better left unasked, and really, it would only spoil the mood.

.*.

Sometimes Pansy thinks about how it would feel to tell her friends and inner circle, when they ask for the hundredth time, who her most famous client is. It would almost be worth it, she thinks, sipping on her campari and lime and reclining back in her chair, to say it in front of Draco and watch his face twist in jealousy. Nearly thirty years old, and Pansy can still read that man like the transparent book he is. If only he knew how close he could one day get to having what he wanted, she thinks with a smirk, recalling how Potter had buried his face into the mattress the night she fucked him for hours. The thrust of her strapped on cock drove them both wild as she gave Potter something he hadn't even known he’d been missing. But Pansy had known ― that’s what she was good at, after all.

Even though it seems like it would be worth it to tell, she knows it wouldn’t be. The risk would be too high, the cost too much even for a woman as expensive as her. The scandal alone would break the hearts of half the fawning wizarding world, and one witch in particular. Above all it would break that one wizard who visits Pansy in the evenings, after work, his Auror robes worn and his expression tired but determined as he drops to his knees and unlaces her calf-high boots. 

There’s always stubble on his jaw when he kisses up her legs, blue-tinged bags under his eyes as he removes his glasses. There’s always that _something_ he brings in with him, a weight he sheds with each layer of that heavy uniform Pansy peels away from him. 

There’s always the cold presence of that wedding band as he slips three fingers inside her, as she sighs and grips his wrist, urging them in deeper. 

Pansy is a pragmatic person, a business woman through and through, and she knows there’s a potential for profit to be found here, in exposing that the great Harry Potter is fighting to make the world a better place by day and paying for sex behind his wife's back by night. But she also knows the trade-off for telling anyone would be the end of this. Harry runs his lips over her nipple, his tongue rough and wet through the silk of her blouse, and when he twists his fingers, crooking them _just so_ and making her see stars, she knows his secret’s safe with her. Exposing him really wouldn't be worth the trouble. 

Pansy wants him to keep visiting, after all.

.*.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! Come find me on [LJ ](http://shiftylinguini.livejournal.com/profile/)or [tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard)<3


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